


Baby, It's Hot Outside

by htbthomas



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Blackouts, F/M, Heatwave, Strip Tease, Traffic Jams, car makeouts, out of gas, stuck together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: It all starts with a voice mail. "Um, Bunch? I'm... I'm at the airport, and I think everyone forgot me. Can you... can you come get me?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuburbanSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta, blithers!

Rebecca pats at her forehead with napkins she'd stashed in her glove box. She's almost out of them; there's a pile behind the driver's seat of the crumpled-up used ones. Her cute little new Subaru is getting trashed with sweaty napkins and there's nothing she can do about it.

Yes. This is the most stressful part of the whole broken down in traffic on the I-605 extravaganza. Right. It's not the equally-sweaty-in-flannel guy in the passenger seat, and definitely not the thoughts of jumping him that are flitting through her brain.

"Yeah, thanks for nothing," Greg says as he hangs up his phone. "No one can get anywhere close. They're saying that traffic is backed up for miles because of the blackout." 

A trickle of sweat rolls down the side of his face, running from his temple and down his cheekbone to land at the corner of his mouth. She absolutely does not want to lick it away.

No. That's not the worst part of this at all.

* * *

It all starts with a voicemail. "Um, Bunch? I'm... I'm at the airport, and I think everyone forgot me. Can you... can you come get me?"

He sounds so apologetic. But not apologetic enough if he was going to come home for Christmas and not even _tell_ her he was coming back. He was probably going to avoid seeing her at all, blowing in and out like a ghost and letting her find out from someone secondhand. She's kind of offended. She's kind of _really_ offended. But then she would probably pull the same thing if it were her, so...

She texts him back. _Sure. What terminal?_ That sounds nonchalant enough.

_Thank you so much. Terminal 7. United._

She checks herself in the mirror before grabbing her purse. Her boobs look great in a cute button-down candy cane sweater, her ass looks fantastic in her jeans and her hair is bouncy and shiny. All the things he decided to leave behind for college.

The heat hits her as soon as she steps outside. God, she will never get used to such warm weather in the winter! Maybe she should go back in and change. But another glance down at the sweater—it really is _super_ cute—and she changes her mind. The car's got A/C.

There's not much gas in her Subaru, but she can stop by the gas station and still get to the airport in about an hour. A couple blocks later, just as she's close, all the traffic lights go dark along with the price display board. She pulls in next to a pump. The LED readout is blank. A quick check of Twitter and she sees the hashtag: #christmaseveblackout. Great.

There's gotta be a place closer to the airport. Like, how far can this blackout extend?

* * *

And now here they are, stuck in the middle of the 605, out of gas, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, dressed way too warmly for a record-breaking December day. They've got the windows rolled down all the way and the hazard lights are blinking merrily. She's already tried Subaru's Roadside Assistance program, and even though they were really nice, they can't get here any faster than the people Greg called. 

"So," she asks to take her mind off that droplet of sweat (seriously, it's just hanging there), "how's Emory?"

He rubs his forearm across his face. "Pretty good. Different. Everyone is really nice." 

He just pushes sweat into his hairline instead, causing little black curls to pop up along his forehead. She used to chew on those between kisses, or sink her fingers into them when he was going down on her.

Ugh. Stop it, Rebecca. She honks the horn once in frustration.

"Uh, I don't think that's gonna help them get here any faster..." Greg tells her oh-so-helpfully. Even if they had gas, the traffic around them hasn't even inched forward in at least fifteen minutes. The guy ahead of her gives her the finger to punctuate Greg's point. The woman to their left gives them an eye roll. Her daughter in the backseat just stares at her phone, fingers sliding across the screen.

"Yeah, I know," Rebecca sighs. "Just needed to let off some steam." No, that sounds wrong. "Uh, some frustration." Not better.

He nods. "I get it. It's hot in Atlanta, but like, you get used to it. And there's air conditioning everywhere."

She looks him over. Wet spots are starting to show under his arms. "You don't look used to it."

"Well," he says, "I wasn't expecting _this_." He gestures to the air around them. "I would have worn a tank top."

She pictures him in a tank top. Actually, she _can't_ picture him in a tank top; it just doesn't compute. "That I'd have to see to believe. Photos. Now," she says, reaching for his phone. And she wants to see what else is on that phone. Pictures of his new life, new friends, new girl...?

He yanks it out of her reach. "No, no. Uh uh. And there aren't any photos of me in a tank top on here. You think I take selfies? Me?"

She shrugs in agreement. She's never seen him take one, not willingly anyway.

"You'll just have to take my word for it."

She casts her gaze over him again; there's something peeking out from under that flannel shirt. "What do you have on under there?"

"What? This?" He plucks at his collar. "Just an—" His eyes narrow. "Wait a second. I see what this is."

"What?" She just wants to see him in a tank top, what is he—? Oh. But... "I wasn't implying _anything_ , sir. But... it is a little too hot to be wearing flannel in a broken-down car with no A/C." 

He eyes her sweater. "Or angora." His eyes linger on her chest.

Suddenly the heat isn't just coming from outside. Maybe there isn't a new girl. "Okay. I can fix that." She unfastens one button slowly. Then two. His gaze stays fixed on that spot. Her fingers hover on button three. 

His tongue darts between his teeth, the picture of anticipation.

"Well?" she says, and his eyes skitter back up to hers, a blush rising to his cheeks. She nods toward him with her chin. "Your turn."

After a moment of shock, his face fades into a smirk. "Okay." He reaches for the first, peeling it out of the buttonhole slowly. His fingers slide down to the next, exposing a bit of bare skin, and a glimpse of white cloth. Then the second comes undone as well. 

There's nothing but a bra under her sweater. A plunging, red satin one. She'd put it on just for fun today, never guessing anyone but her mirror would get to see it. So there goes the next button, and the next. The sweat is beading on his forehead now, his pupils dark. She nods, a silent 'now you.'

He gives her what she wants, even unbuttoning the rest of the way. It's a V-neck undershirt, sticking to him, outlining his chest and stomach. She wants to touch it—and why not? He's clearly giving her permission. But first...

She undoes the final buttons, sliding the fabric back over her shoulders to reveal, well, the rest. "Merry Christmas," she whispers.

And then their lips are crashing into each other, though she's not sure who moved first. The gear shift is in the way, and so is the parking brake, but she doesn't care. She's made out with him in more uncomfortable places. 

He palms her breast, his thumb skating over the satin, and she gasps into his mouth. She has no idea what the guy ahead of her will think if he looks into his rearview mirror, and as she climbs over into the passenger seat to straddle Greg, she catches the eye of the woman to their left. The woman's eyes go wide and she bites her lip, then she looks away. Her teenaged daughter in the back doesn't even notice, still glued to her phone screen.

"Rebecca," Greg says as she starts nibbling on his ear. "People are going to see." But he's not pushing her away.

"So?" she murmurs. "Let them." 

Below her, he gets harder. 

It's been a long time since she made out in a car, and it's kind of a turn on knowing that anyone can see them as they inch past. Still, this would be a lot more comfortable with a little more room. She reaches for the lever on the side of the seat, and their combined weight pushes the seat back down as far as it can go. Now the woman won't be able to see much, but she can imagine whatever she wants.

You're welcome.

She slips her hands between their bodies, running down his undershirt to the hem and snaking them below the fabric. Pulling off his shirt, she sees that he's practically dripping with sweat now, and she doesn't get why it's so sexy. She kisses him harder, moaning into his mouth, their skin sliding against each other as they move in unison…

She slips right off and bangs into the door.

"Ow!" She rubs at her arm.

"You okay?" Droplets pool in the crevice where his brows are drawing together in concern.

"Yeah." She grabs his discarded shirt to mop up the extra moisture between them. Then she goes back in, grinding against him and getting a hoarse "Fuck" for her trouble. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that cars are starting to move a little again, and it's even more hot than before, knowing someone else might get a glimpse of what they're doing. She presses closer, and now she's starting to stick to him… "Oh my god, it's so _hot_!"

She pulls off him, panting. His eyes are a little unfocused, his face flushed. "Wh…?"

"It is _literally_ too hot to be in this car." Glancing at his suitcase in the backseat, she asks, "You got any T-shirts in there?"

So walking down the side of the highway pulling a roller suitcase wasn't exactly the way she planned to spend the afternoon on Christmas Eve. But as she looks over at Greg, she knows how she's going to spend Christmas Eve night.


End file.
